


All the Lonely People

by TheVioletHour (TinternAbbey)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eames is a Beatles enthusiast, M/M, Multi, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 00:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinternAbbey/pseuds/TheVioletHour
Summary: Eames is a down-on-his-luck chauffeur who falls in love at first sight with Arthur, the man he drives to the airport. When Arthur leaves behind a mysterious briefcase, Eames is determined—with the help of his cat grooming roommate Yusuf—to track him down and return it, even if it means driving two thousand miles to find him.[Dumb and DumberAU, but with somewhat less stupidity and more dreams.]





	All the Lonely People

"The trickiest part about this job, of course, is driving on the right side of the road," Eames remarked from the front seat of the limo. "Why you Americans always have to change things around is beyond me. I've been here for two bloody years and I still don't understand why you turned the Philosopher's Stone into the Sorcerer's Stone." He glanced into the rearview mirror, smiling hopefully at his passenger. "You've read Harry Potter, I suppose?"

His passenger, sitting tight-lipped in the backseat, looked completely unamused. But of course, he'd been wearing that expression since Eames picked him up, so it was hard to tell.

"Yes, I've read Harry Potter," his passenger admitted, while Eames turned onto the exit that led to the airport.

"Ahh, we've got something in common, then," Eames chuckled. He dared another peek into the rearview mirror, but the man in the backseat remained completely impassive. Perhaps a different tactic was in order. "My name is Eames, by the way," he added. "Edward Lloyd Eames. Got a Welsh grandmother—that's where the Lloyd comes from. Edward for my uncle. I don't believe I ever caught _your_ name."

"Arthur."

It came out simple and to-the-point. No last name. Eames savored it the way most chauffeurs savored an exceptionally large tip at the end of a lengthy drive.

" _Arthur_ ," Eames repeated, caressing the word. "Now that's a name an Englishman like me can appreciate. A good, strong, _kingly_ name."

"Believe me," said Arthur, finally showing a few cracks in his icy exterior, "I've heard _all_ the jokes."

Eames could have cracked a dirty one about sticking a sword in Arthur's stone, but he restrained himself. Despite their brief acquaintance, he liked Arthur. He liked him a _lot_. And as long as they were stuck in this fancy car together, Eames was determined to make a good impression.

"Where are you headed to, anyway?" he asked, turning around in his seat to face Arthur. "Someplace lovely, I hope. Are you off on holiday—pardon me, _vacation_ , as you lot call it?"

Arthur stared at him directly, eyes dark and intense. Like twin arrows of Cupid piercing Eames straight in the heart.

"Mr. Eames, why don't you _watch the fucking road_?"

"Shit!" Eames exclaimed, swerving the car just in time to avoid a collision.

Several cars honked at him, but they could piss off. It had all been worth it, just for that brief look into Arthur's eyes. The man was bloody gorgeous. He was also, if Eames judged him correctly, anxious about something. When he wasn't shuttling people to airports and whatnot, Eames made it a hobby to study human behavior. All the subtle varieties of tone and expression were an endless source of fascination to him. He had noticed, during his frequent glances at the rearview mirror, the way Arthur's jaw remained tight throughout the trip. The way his eyes flicked toward the passenger window, seeking roadsigns, perhaps. Most intriguing was the silver briefcase laid upon his lap, and the possessive way he kept his hands upon it.

Arthur, without doubt, was a man with something heavy on his mind.

The airport would be coming up soon. Eames slowed the limo, hoping to prolong the end of the journey. "So," he remarked, watching Arthur through the mirror. "Where _are_ you headed?"

"Aspen."

"California, right? Must be warm this time of year."

"Colorado, actually."

"Of course," said Eames, smiling. "I haven't gotten the hang of American geography just yet. This country is too bloody big for its own good. What do you plan to do with yourself, so far off in Colorado?"

Whatever was troubling Arthur seemed to weigh even heavier on his shoulders. "I think you should focus on the road, Mr. Eames. We're nearly there."

It was enough to plunge Eames into silent melancholy. He wasn't a brooder by nature, but the thought of sending Arthur off into the vast unknown put a considerable damper on his spirits. In his silence, he became aware of the half-forgotten Beatles CD he'd put on at the start of the ride. (A surefire way to remind passengers how charmingly British he was.) Paul McCartney was singing a melancholy tune that seemed to speak to him directly: _Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay_.

He spied the airport in the distance, looming above the traffic like a beacon of despair. Arthur, it seemed, only grew more tense at their arrival. Whatever he was seeking in Aspen, he didn't seem to look forward to it.

Eames spent the last minute of the drive hoping that Arthur was deathly afraid of airplanes, and that he would develop second thoughts and cancel the flight. But Arthur, for all his apparent anxiety, never breathed a word of reluctance about his journey. When the limo slid to a stop, Arthur got out and waited, gripping the handle of his silver briefcase, while Eames fetched his bag from the trunk.

This was it, then.

A few more moments with him, if Eames was lucky, before Arthur walked out of his life forever. Eames was a bloody fool, as his roommate Yusuf constantly reminded him. He fell too hard and too fast, always taking risks. Always heedlessly gambling, never stopping to think what would happen if the stakes grew too high and his money ran out.

For an extra minute with Arthur, Eames would gladly gamble every last cent in his pockets. (Which wasn't much, admittedly.)

"I suppose this is goodbye," said Eames, after he shut the trunk. He handed Arthur his bag, purposely angling it so that their hands touched. The contact was achingly brief. "As Shakespeare said, 'parting is such sweet sorrow'."

Arthur stood there and assessed him with something other than tension in his eyes. Amusement, perhaps, though Eames wouldn't bet on it.

"I appreciate the drive, Mr. Eames," said Arthur. "Take care."

Setting down his bag (but not the briefcase), Arthur swiftly pulled a five-dollar bill from his breast pocket.

"Haven't been tipped a fiver in a while," said Eames, eyeing the money. "I'm flattered you think I'm worth that much, but I can't possibly take it."

Arthur stared at him (certainly amusement this time), then tucked the bill back into the crisp black pocket of his jacket. "Suit yourself, then." His anxiety returned with a glance at his watch. "If you'll excuse me, I've got my flight to catch..."

"Wait!"

The word burst out of Eames with a desperation he rarely felt. It would have been embarrassing if he wasn't so bloody reluctant to let this man go.

"In place of a tip, I'd prefer a hug goodbye," said Eames. He flashed a charming grin to hide how utterly foolish he felt. "I like to leave a lasting impression on all my passengers, you see."

"You are without doubt the strangest limo driver I have ever met," Arthur muttered, but he consented to the hug.

It was one _hell_ of a hug, by Eames' standards.

He couldn't explain what compelled him to hang onto Arthur like he would never let him go. Eames only knew that he had fallen hard. He had fallen fast. And he didn't know what the bloody hell he would do with himself when he _did_ let Arthur go.

"Mr. Eames," Arthur said warningly. He smelled like aftershave and hazelnut coffee creamer.

"Yes, yes, I know. Your flight. I promise you won't be late."

"Your _hand_ is on my ass."

"Is it?" Eames asked innocently. With all the reluctance in the world, he released Arthur and gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Sorry about that. I guess this is cheerio for now."

"More like forever," Arthur corrected him, sounding rather cocky about it. The hint of a smile twitched about his lips, only to vanish when he picked up his bag and made his retreat.

Neither of them said another word.

Eames climbed back into his limo, where he consoled himself by restarting his Beatles CD. _(Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody.)_ He stared through the car windows, watching Arthur's slim, black-suited figure grow smaller and smaller until the busy terminal swallowed him up. He never even got a chance to ask Arthur his favorite Beatles album. (Probably _Revolver_ , if Eames were to guess. It suited him.)

It was both a blessing and a curse that the airport had been built with large, gaping windows. When Eames started the engine and brought the limo to a crawl, he could glimpse Arthur through the crowds, seeking his plane to Aspen. It was stupid, pining after someone he would likely never see again. Eames _knew_ it was stupid, but he couldn't bring himself to step on the gas and tear out of there. Not until he had stolen every last glimpse of Arthur he could get.

Arthur paused within the terminal, setting down his briefcase. He checked his watch and fiddled with the cuffs of his immaculate suit. For a moment, Eames swore Arthur looked through the window and saw his limo, but the moment passed. A large family swarmed around Arthur, eclipsing him from view, and by the time the crowd had cleared, Arthur was on his way.

The briefcase remained behind.

Eames could only stare. The thought of Arthur—neat, impeccable Arthur—actually forgetting his luggage seemed baffling. Then again, he had also been anxious about something. Anxiety could befuddle even the tidiest of men.

But Eames couldn't just sit there and let the thing get stolen. _Here_ was the perfect opportunity to see Arthur again.

He was out of his limo before John and Paul could sing another word. Past the airport's double doors, dashing into the terminal, dodging and shoving people left and right. There was the briefcase. Eames snatched it up, feeling like James Bond on a high-stakes pursuit, and never paused to catch his breath as he rushed for the gate that led to Aspen.

Desperate images raced through his mind as he ran. Arthur smiling in gratitude at the safe return of his briefcase. Arthur cancelling his flight and following Eames back to the limo. Arthur joining Eames at his apartment—blissfully empty of Yusuf and cats—and consenting to the most wild, passionate shag—

"Buggering hell," Eames whispered, staring in misery as Arthur's plane took off.

He was too late.

Too fucking _late_.

He stared down at the briefcase in his hand, feeling like his last hope had been wrenched right out of his chest.

* * *

His day only got worse from there.

It turned out that leaving a nice, shiny limo unlocked with the keys in the ignition was an auto theft waiting to happen. And Eames didn't deserve to drive nice, shiny limos if he was going to be negligent and let them get stolen, so he was promptly fired.

Eames hoped the thief, whoever he was, appreciated the free Beatles CD. He would have to replace his copy of _Help!_

As soon as he found another bloody job.

At least nobody had thought of confiscating the briefcase. On the bus ride home to the apartment he shared with Yusuf, Eames clung tightly to the silver handle, cherishing it as a souvenir of Arthur. If he ever ended up on his deathbed (supposing he wasn't shot in the head at a poker game gone wrong), he was going to request to be buried with that briefcase. It would rest in his cold, dead hands forever, as a symbol of lost love.

(Yusuf often told Eames he had too much imagination.

Eames often told Yusuf to shove his opinions up his arse.)

His apartment, to put it bluntly, was only slightly nicer than a shithole. It always smelled like cat piss and chemicals, courtesy of Yusuf, and when he trudged through the door he caught the additional odor of cheap Chinese food. Yusuf sat slumped in an armchair, chewing dejectedly on chow mein, while a black-and-white cat (Snowstorm? Jiminy? Tutu? Eames could never keep track of the little shits) perched above his shoulder.

"You look about as wonderful as I feel," Eames remarked, gently resting the briefcase next to his vinyl collection. "Rough day at work?"

"More like my _last_ day at work," Yusuf huffed. "I'm the only one in town who can give Mrs. McMaster's precious Velveteen a sparkling bath without turning into a human scratching post. The entire grooming industry knows it! Yet that woman had the audacity to get me sacked because my latest concoction—which acts as a natural detangler, mind you!—had the unfortunate side effect of turning the cat green. And it's not like it's _permanent._ It would have washed out in a week or two!"

Eames grabbed an egg roll and sank into an empty chair. "Maybe you should stop tinkering around with chemicals and buy some _real_ cat shampoo from the bloody store." He groaned to himself, remembering that his days as a limo driver were currently over. "But what's the use? I've been sacked too."

"Shit, Eames. I've told you about sexual harassment. People _do_ press charges!"

"I didn't harass anyone," Eames snapped. His tone softened as he tried to determine what, exactly had been packed into his egg roll. "I fell in love."

Out came the whole story about Arthur and the briefcase. He tried to explain how it felt when Arthur first looked at him with those dark, serious eyes. Like somebody had kicked him right in the chest. "He looks like a strict librarian," Eames said dreamily, recalling Arthur's perfectly tailored clothes. "Not bloody likely, of course, since I'm pretty sure he's too wealthy to be a common laborer."

"Out of your league, then," said Yusuf. " _And_ out of reach."

"Thanks for your support, Yusuf. This has been both the best and the worst day of my entire fucking life. I think a little sensitivity is in order here."

Yusuf's idea of sensitivity was to swallow a mouthful of noodles and stare at the silver briefcase. "What's in that thing, anyway?"

Eames followed Yusuf's gaze to the briefcase. It looked very shiny in their dull apartment. "I don't know. I haven't opened it."

"You haven't _opened_ it? Eames, both of us just lost our goddamn jobs! What if there's something valuable in there? If we don't get some money soon, you'll end up robbing banks and I'll have to prostitute myself to lonely old women and I for one do _not_ look forward to that prospect."

"Please, Yusuf. If anyone's going to rent out their dick, it'll be me."

"Older women find me charming, for your information," Yusuf retorted. "I was very popular at my grandmother's nursing home. But that is beside the point! You're never going to see that Arthur fellow again, so why not think of him fondly while you spend his money?"

Eames _did_ like money. He liked it a little too much in Mombasa, which led to him and Yusuf fleeing for America, but this wasn't Mombasa and if Arthur had forgotten his briefcase, then technically Eames wasn't stealing it. Finders keepers and all that.

"Fuck it," said Eames. "Let's crack it open. I'll fetch my lock picks."

It took him five minutes to realize the briefcase wasn't locked. Once it was open, he and Yusuf spent an additional twenty minutes trying to determine what the bloody hell they were looking at.

The briefcase didn't contain any valuables, or even standard travel items like toothpaste and pairs of socks. Instead it contained, as far as Eames could tell, some sort of complicated, high-tech device involving IV tubes, needles, and vials filled with an unidentifiable liquid.

"Your Arthur is either a doctor with a portable practice," said Yusuf, inspecting one of the vials, "or a party animal with a _very_ complex method of getting high."

Eames shot a glare at him. "A doctor I can believe. But I highly doubt he shoots up drugs in his spare time."

"Right, right. He's too busy looking like a _strict librarian_ , shushing people when they talk too loud."

"You haven't _seen_ him, Yusuf! He is the very image of perfection and I will not have his name sullied under this roof."

"I still think it's drugs," said Yusuf stubbornly, ignoring the fact that Eames could easily stab him with his set of discarded chopsticks. (Eames was a pro at handling wood, pun _very_ much intended.) "If he's not using, he's at least selling. Maybe _that's_ how he can afford his fancy Aspen trip. And before you jump down my throat, Eames, I'm only speculating! How much do you even know about this man, after all?"

"Not much," Eames admitted. "But I know bloody well how I feel."

"About someone you just met a few _hours_ ago," Yusuf muttered. His eyes brightened momentarily when he plucked a flat, plastic-wrapped object out of the briefcase. "Hey! I wonder if these are instructions."

The two of them studied the instruction manual over a carton of cold fried rice. Arthur was involved in something called dreamshare, which _did_ sound a bit dodgy, though Eames would never admit it out loud. It only strengthened Yusuf's suspicions that the briefcase was an elaborate tool for recreational drug use.

"Let's try it, then," Eames decided, determined to prove Yusuf wrong. "Let's see how high it gets us." He wandered over to his vinyl collection, the only thing he ever bothered to organize, and flipped through the records. "Though if we're going to experiment with unknown substances, I think some background music is needed."

Yusuf groaned. "Not 'Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds'."

"I'd like to see you find something more perfectly appropriate," Eames retorted.

He put on the record and let Yusuf fuss with the IV needles, while John Lennon's voice cast a psychedelic haze over the room. Eames would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous about the whole thing, but the prospect of plunging himself into something wild also had its appeal. The way he saw it, he and Yusuf both had very little left to lose.

When Yusuf approached him with the needle, Eames sat back and grinned.

"If this is rock bottom, Yusuf, then I'm fucking ready for it."

* * *

He was back in the limo, hands resting gently upon the steering wheel. He could hear "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, but it wasn't coming from the car speakers. It sounded farther away, playing out on the street, perhaps, while familiar monuments and roadsigns flitted past.

Somehow he was back on the road to the airport.

Eames dared a peek into the rearview mirror and froze. There, seated in the back, was Arthur.

"Bloody hell, I _must_ be high as balls," Eames murmured to himself.

"You and me both, mate," Yusuf said from the passenger seat. "This is one vivid hallucination."

Eames stomped so hard on the brakes, he nearly broke his foot. "Yusuf! What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Yusuf was dressed in the hat and apron he normally wore to work. They were both baby blue with "Kitty Kuts" embroidered on them in colorful block letters. "How am I supposed to know that? We're tripping the exact same balls, it seems."

A couple of irate cars started honking from behind, so Eames stepped on the gas. It all felt so familiar—so _real_ —but he couldn't figure out how on earth he got here.

Arthur hadn't said anything. He continued to sit rigidly in the backseat, just as visibly anxious as the last time Eames saw him. Once again he was clutching the silver briefcase.

"I would suspect we've gone back in time," said Eames, "only there's no fucking way I would drag you along on this journey, Yusuf."

"Where _are_ we headed, anyway?"

"Airport."

" _Ahh._ " Yusuf finally realized they weren't alone and stole a glance at the backseat. "And that must be the wonderful Arthur. He looks like a military man turned schoolteacher."

"He does," Eames said fondly. "What do you do for a living, Arthur? I never got a chance to ask you earlier."

Arthur's gaze met the rearview mirror, dark and intense and full of secrets just within reach. "I suppose you could call me an entrepreneur. I sell something called dreamshare. It's been lucrative enough to earn an extended trip to Aspen."

" _Drug dealer_ ," Yusuf hissed under his breath.

"Why Aspen?" asked Eames, ignoring Yusuf. "Got any family there?"

"I think you should focus on the road, Mr. Eames," Arthur said.

Yusuf was smirking. "He's a brilliant conversationalist. I can see why you're smitten with him."

"He's under _stress_ , you wanker," Eames whispered, hoping Arthur was too preoccupied to eavesdrop. "Something's troubling him, and I mean to find out what it is." Raising his voice, he said, in the most charming way possible, "I couldn't help noticing, Arthur, you seem a little strained. Anxious about flying?"

"I am," Arthur admitted. "Terrified, actually." A reluctant smile broke across his face. "Everybody's got a weakness, after all, and flying is mine."

"I'm not terribly fond of it myself. Getting from England to Kenya and then out here was horrendous. All that bloody ocean under you feels like the universe is laughing in your face."

The exit to the airport was coming up soon. Eames was tempted to miss it and wondered if Arthur would notice if he did. Yusuf was fiddling with the radio, which didn't seem to work for some reason. "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" kept seeping into the car from an unknown source, no stronger or fainter than before.

They were a mile from the exit when Arthur shifted closer to the driver's seat and ordered, "Turn the car around, Mr. Eames. I've changed my mind."

"Flying scares you _that_ much?" Yusuf asked.

"Shut it, Yusuf," said Eames. "What do you want me to do, Arthur? Take you back to your hotel?"

Arthur placed a hand on Eames' shoulder. His touch was warm and solid. "I'd rather head to your place. If you don't mind."

Eames made a mental note to have those words engraved on his headstone. "I couldn't dream of a better way to spend my time."

"Well that's just lovely. What about _me_?" demanded Yusuf.

Arthur pulled a gun from his jacket and shot Yusuf in the head. Eames promptly lost control of the car and swerved off the road, while Yusuf's blood dripped down the windshield.

"Perfect," said Arthur, while Eames screamed and swore and fought to avoid a collision. "Now that we're completely alone, you can do whatever the hell you want to me."

It would have sounded outrageously sexy, if Eames wasn't heading for a roadside disaster with a dead man slumped beside him. When he tried to articulate this to Arthur, he was interrupted by a series of loud, sharp thumps, like a fist striking wood.

Arthur and the limo suddenly disappeared.

* * *

And Eames opened his eyes to find Yusuf crouched in front of him, sliding the needle from his arm while somebody rapped on the door to their apartment.

"What the fuck just happened?" Eames demanded, feeling strangely groggy. "And how are you alive? I saw you shot right in front of me!"

" _Shh_ ," Yusuf shushed him, finger held warningly to his lips. "Let's see who's at the door."

Eames still felt woozy as he heaved himself out of his chair. The knocking persisted, sharp and loud, reminding him eerily of the gunshot to Yusuf's head. He had to tap Yusuf on the arm, just to assure himself he was real and _alive_ , as the two of them crept to the door and looked through the peephole.

Two people stood in the hall, both dressed in unassuming black. The man was squinting at the door, fist raised to deliver another knock. His companion, a beautiful woman, shook her head and drew his hand away. With a final scowl at the door, the man finally turned and disappeared, the woman trailing after him.

"Goddamn it, Eames," said Yusuf, running his hands through his hair. "This is _exactly_ what we need. More debt collectors! Next thing you know, this will be bloody Mombasa all over again!"

"It won't be Mombasa," said Eames. He sank back into his chair, feeling the strange urge to take a long, long nap. "In Mombasa, we were _shot_ at. And how do you know those were debt collectors?"

"Have you neglected to pay anyone lately?"

"Nobody but Carlos, and I told the lousy bugger I'd have his money on Tuesday."

"Seems Tuesday isn't fast enough."

"Shit," said Eames. They needed money. They needed _time_. His eyes landed on the briefcase, which sat open on the coffee table, and a wild idea sprang to life in his head. "Yusuf, we've got to get the hell out of here. And I don't mean hole up in a motel down the road for a few days. I mean, get _out_ of here, out of this shoddy town and off into the wider world!"

"That's what you said last time," said Yusuf.

"Last time I didn't have a plan. Just look at us, Yusuf. Jobless and hopeless, eating Chinese takeout. I haven't been laid in weeks. Probably _years_ , in your case. Do you really want to spend the rest of your pathetic life grooming cats to earn a dollar?"

"I do, actually," said Yusuf.

Eames ignored him. He sat up straighter in his seat, feeling hope take hold of him. "We don't have to rot away in this shithole forever, losing one job after another and getting hounded by the debtors. Why don't the two of us take a trip out on the open road and go west?"

Yusuf stared suspiciously at the briefcase. "And I suppose this has absolutely _nothing_ to do with a man named Arthur who's headed to Aspen, right? This isn't a plan, Eames. It's a pipe dream!"

"A pipe dream, is it? Or perhaps the road to riches. If Arthur is as wealthy as I suspect, he'll have a _very_ tidy reward for the bloke who returns his missing property."

A sly smile worked itself slowly into Yusuf's face. "All our troubles would be solved in an instant."

"Exactly."

With the added bonus of a reunion with Arthur, of course. There was no better way to woo a man (or woman; Eames was _far_ from picky when it came to shagging) than to trek all the way across the country to return a lost briefcase. Arthur would be so bloody grateful, his buttons would practically undo themselves.

"You can get Nash down the hall to feed the cats for you. First thing in the morning, we're taking off to Aspen," Eames decided.

"To return the world's most intense acid trip," added Yusuf, who had started packing up the briefcase.

"I don't think it was an acid trip, mate," said Eames, recalling the warmth of Arthur's hand on his shoulder. "I think it was a dream."

* * *

They had no choice but to take Yusuf's Kittymobile.

It was a baby blue Volkswagen Beetle with cat ears and whiskers. Somehow it was both the cutest and the most hideous thing Eames had ever laid eyes on.

He seriously doubted it would improve his chances of shagging Arthur, but Yusuf wouldn't hear of removing the modifications.

"I spent a lot of money on the Kittymobile," Yusuf informed him over a breakfast of stale cereal. "And I intend to get every penny's worth, whether it helps you drop Arthur's trousers or not."

"People are going to think we're on our way to a little girl's birthday party," Eames retorted, though he already knew that was the end of the matter. Yusuf would never budge when it came to his freakish vehicle.

They were on the road for less than five seconds when the gunshots started.

The moment Yusuf pulled out of the lot behind their apartment building, bullets ripped through the air in quick succession, putting a series of dents in the car (which, as Yusuf pointed out, had _just_ been washed and shined last week).

"Shit," said Eames, ducking his head. "Must be those debt collectors again!"

Yusuf stomped on the gas, speeding away from the gunfire, and swerved into the nearest side street, while Eames wondered if they had somehow been pulled into another dream.

The complete lack of Arthur assured him that this was reality.

"You _did_ tell Carlos you would pay him, right?" Yusuf demanded, speeding into one side street after another to elude their attackers.

"Of course I did," said Eames. "Tuesday, no later than six o'clock. Even _I_ know better than to lie to Carlos. He's either got an awful memory or has suddenly decided the world would be much better without me in it."

"He wouldn't be wrong," Yusuf muttered. "That stupid briefcase had better be worth a goddamn fortune, Eames, or else the damage to my car is coming right out of your arse! Do you think we lost those gunmen?"

The shots had ceased. When Eames checked behind them, he saw nothing more threatening than a dog chasing a bird.

"We lost them, so keep your knickers on and get us out of this bloody town."

* * *

" _Merde!_ " swore the beautiful French woman dressed in black who'd been lurking outside the apartment. "I knew I should have done the firing. You're a terrible shot."

"I'm an excellent shot," retorted her husband. He squinted down the road where the hideous blue Volkswagen had disappeared. "I've extracted more lives than you could ever dream of. Those two just got lucky."

"They're about to get luckier if we don't hit the road."

The wife stepped on the gas of their anonymous black car (whose license plate said XTRACTR) and sped off in pursuit of the Kittymobile.

* * *

Eames had been right all along about America. It really _was_ too big for its own bloody good. He and Yusuf took turns driving through Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York, and by the time they got halfway into Pennsylvania he was sure that Colorado was just around the corner. A quick peek at their roadmap proved him wrong. He had to remind himself that the road may be long and incredibly tedious, but Arthur waited at the end of it, hopefully with enough cash to make Yusuf stop bitching about the bullet holes in his car.

Just before midnight, they reached the Ohio-Indiana border without incident and found a cheap motel. Yusuf went right to sleep, but Eames lay awake, staring at the briefcase that rested on the bedside table. Unlike Yusuf, he still wasn't convinced that Arthur had gotten rich off some sort of LSD derivative. Dreamshare had to be something else; something that went deeper than mere hallucination.

As the clock ticked slowly past midnight, his curiosity got the better of him. He opened the briefcase, hooked himself up to the device, and climbed back into bed with his eyes closed.

When he opened them, he found himself seated comfortably on a leather couch, a mug of hot chocolate in hand. A fire crackled on the hearth, while snow lay piled outside the wide window. He had made it to Aspen, then. The briefcase lay on an elegant coffee table, gleaming silver-bright in the glow of the fire.

"That's got to be the ugliest sweater I've ever seen," Arthur informed him.

Unlike the Arthur from the limo ride, this new version of Arthur appeared much more relaxed. He stood by the fireplace, clutching his own mug of hot chocolate, and regarded Eames with an air of cocky amusement.

Eames didn't see what the bloody joke was all about. He _liked_ his green-and-orange striped sweater. It kept him very cozy in the snowy weather.

"It happened to be very expensive," said Eames. "I bought it with _your_ money."

"If I knew you'd spend it so unwisely, I never would have rewarded you," said Arthur. "But I’m verygrateful for the safe return of my briefcase. I don't know what I'd do without it."

Once again, Eames had no idea how he'd gotten into his present situation. Outside, the world glittered with sunlight on snow. The room surely belonged to Arthur, since everything in it seemed tasteful and sophisticated, arranged with perfect order. As he sipped his hot chocolate and accepted Arthur's gratitude, he became aware that the two of them were completely alone.

Arthur sank gracefully into the armchair across from Eames. He wore a silk scarf the color of a dove's wing.

"What exactly _is_ dreamshare?" Eames dared to ask him.

"Dreamshare is whatever you want it to be," said Arthur, eyes dark and warm as he gazed at Eames.

"My friend Yusuf thinks you're a drug dealer. I've told him it's bollocks."

"I'm not a drug dealer," Arthur agreed, smiling softly. He had never revealed what was troubling him on the ride to the airport, but that burden had apparently been lifted from his shoulders. With a glance at his slim, shiny wristwatch, Arthur asked, "Do you have plans to remain in Aspen long? I can make arrangements for you if you're planning to stay a while."

"That sounds absolutely splendid."

“I have a guest room that would suit you nicely. Unless you would prefer a different arrangement?”

He would. Oh yes, he _definitely_ would. Eames opened his mouth to speak, but the room suddenly looked whiter, as if the snow from outside had blown indoors, and he could no longer hear the crackling of the fire...

* * *

It ended abruptly, of course, like all dreams eventually did.

Eames removed the needle from his arm and shut the briefcase. He tried to ignore Yusuf's snoring and spent a long, unsatisfying night with his right hand and memories of snow and hot chocolate.

* * *

"I swear," Yusuf said the next morning, once they were back on the road, "if I hear you moaning Arthur's name in your sleep one more time, I will shove my knitting needles through your _eye_."

Eames, bleary-eyed and groggy, tried to process this unusual threat. "Yusuf, why the bloody hell would you own a pair of knitting needles?"

"To make sweaters for cats! I'm planning to sell them at the next gas station we stop at."

Yusuf wasn't joking. When they stopped for gas twenty minutes later, he pulled out a whole array of tiny sweaters in various colors. Some of them even had smiley faces or phrases such as, _I'm the Cat's Meow!_ Three old ladies and one man who looked like a hippie actually bought some of the sweaters, while Eames drifted away from the gas pump and pretended he was traveling in the next car over. It was sharp and black with XTRACTR on the license plate.

Eames swore the car started following them, once they pulled out of the gas station, but he put it out of his mind when he spotted a billboard up ahead.

**SAITO'S ROADSIDE SUSHI**  
**Where East Meets the Midwest**

"Never seen a roadside sushi restaurant before," said Eames. "Maybe we can stop there for lunch."

When they entered the restaurant, they were greeted by a large bronze statue of a man in a business suit, presumably Saito. A waitress dressed as a geisha led Eames and Yusuf to a booth near the back. Her name tag said _Shirley_.

"Welcome to Saito's Roadside Sushi," she told them with a bow. "I recommend our chef's specialty, the Saito Roll. Every day, the chef randomly folds a fifty-dollar bill into just _one_ of the Saito Rolls. Perhaps one of you will be the lucky person who finds it."

"Doesn't that get terribly expensive for the restaurant?" asked Yusuf.

Shirley gave him a stiff smile beneath her geisha makeup. "No expense is too great for Mr. Saito. If you're not feeling lucky, our other special of the day is the Carpet Roll—an intricate piece of edible artwork designed to look _just_ like Mr. Saito's favorite carpet."

It didn't sound appetizing in the slightest, so Eames and Yusuf both tested their fortune with the Saito Roll. Neither of them found the fifty-dollar bill, but Eames found two familiar faces on the other side of the restaurant. He nudged Yusuf under the table and hissed, "The debtors are back."

Yusuf hastily swallowed his sushi and demanded, "Where?"

"Look behind you, but be subtle about it."

Unfortunately, Yusuf was as subtle as a freight train in the middle of a city street. In his effort to glance undetected at the debtors, he knocked over a large bottle of soy sauce and spilled the entire thing on the rug below.

The entire restaurant went dead silent.

"Uh, I guess we'll need a towel," said Yusuf, staring down at the growing puddle of soy sauce.

"You'll need more than just a towel," said Shirley. "You're going to need a _miracle_."

In the silence of the restaurant, Eames heard one distinctive sound: the soft tread of expensive leather shoes. Eames wasn't sure how he was able to hear the price tag, but somehow he knew. The man who approached their table radiated money, power, and utter manliness. Every time he laughed, a silver dollar was minted, and every time he cried, the stock market took a plunge. Every man in the restaurant wanted to be him. Every woman wanted to shag him. The Old Spice Guy was terribly jealous of him.

Given the man's resemblance to the bronze statue by the door, Eames knew this must be Saito Himself.

"Good day, gentlemen," greeted Saito. His voice was as smooth and powerful as a bank transaction. He swept his imperious gaze over the stained rug at his feet. "Are you responsible for this... unfortunate accident?"

Yusuf's mouth had gone slack and he stared at Saito in a wide-eyed mixture of fear and awe. "I suppose we are."

"We're terribly sorry about the rug, mate," Eames added charmingly. "It really tied the room together."

"It did more than tie the room together," said Saito. "It tied together my very _soul_." He spotted the tote bag Yusuf had brought with him. It was stuffed full of his yet-to-be-sold cat sweaters. "May I see that?"

Yusuf looked like he would rather chew off his own arm than refuse Saito's request. He handed over the tote bag and watched Saito remove the tiny sweaters one-by-one.

"I see we have an artist among us," Saito remarked, studying a purple sweater with _Purr-fect_ written on the back in yellow letters.

"Well, I wouldn't call myself an _artist_ , exactly, but my mother always said I have a gift with yarn..."

Saito snapped his fingers.

Shirley stepped forward and took the bundle of cat sweaters. At a nod from Saito, she dropped them into the soy sauce puddle, ensuring that every single sweater became as stained as the rug. Yusuf couldn't speak. He could only stare in open-mouthed horror as several hours' worth of work went down the drain.

"Enjoy the rest of your lunch, gentlemen," Saito said with a sly chuckle. His laughter sounded like thousands of gold coins rubbing together. He retreated from their table until the expensive tread of his shoes had disappeared.

"You are such a fucking wanker, Yusuf," said Eames. "Now look what you've done."

"How am _I_ a wanker? I'm not the one who gave my perfectly good knitting a soy sauce bath!"

"But now the entire bloody restaurant has an eye on us, thus ruining our chances of keeping a low profile! I swear if this day gets any worse, I am shoving those soy sauce-soaked cat sweaters up your miserable _arse_."

It did get worse.

When Shirley brought them the bill, Eames discovered she had charged them for the damaged rug.

"Bugger. There goes the rest of our gas money! How the hell are we supposed to get to Aspen?"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to purchase that rug for you," said the mysterious, black-clad debt collector who had suddenly stepped forward. His female companion stood just behind him.

Eames and Yusuf exchanged confused glances. "You actually want to _buy_ this rug that's soaked in soy sauce?"

The man's gaze was intense. "It's nothing a few trips to the dry cleaner can't fix." He put out a hand for Eames to shake. "My name is Mr. Charles. My partner, Mrs. Shade, and I are headed to Aspen as well. We'd be more than happy to help you out."

"I say we let them buy the bloody rug," Yusuf whispered.

Yusuf had also said that _Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_ was an overrated album, so his opinion was usually bollocks, but Eames remembered that he needed to cling tight to every last penny if he wanted to see Arthur again.

"Very well," Eames said smoothly, leaning back in his seat. "The rug is yours—stains and all."

"But not the cat sweaters," said Mrs. Shade, tossing a smirk at Yusuf. She spoke with a light French accent. "You can keep those."

Eames was relieved he wouldn't have to pay for an expensive rug, but also wary of accepting such a generous gift from people who were more than likely _shooting_ at him yesterday. He waited for Shirley to roll up the soiled rug (while a heartbroken Yusuf stuffed the sweaters back into his tote bag) and made no effort to get up until Mr. Charles was busy paying his portion of the bill. Eames signaled to Yusuf and snuck out of his seat, taking care to flip the bird at Saito's statue as he hurried out of the restaurant. He was prepared to hop into the car and leave those bastards behind in a cloud of dust, when a horrible discovery greeted him in the parking lot.

Somebody (and he had a bloody good idea _who_ ) had slashed all four tires of Yusuf's Kittymobile.

* * *

Forty-five minutes earlier, Mr. Charles—also known as Mr. Cobb—was on the road with a cell phone pressed to his ear, listening to his increasingly irate employer give instructions while his wife drove the car. He'd been through a hellish twenty-four hours, between the theft of the briefcase and the uncomfortable realization that somebody out there was working against him.

And he didn't have the slightest fucking _idea_ who it could be, as he tried to remind his employer (in slightly more polite terms).

The man on the other side of the phone, who chose to identify simply as "Bobby" during matters of business, sounded like someone had shoved an icicle up his ass. "Then _find out_ who hired them, Cobb." Bobby's voice was low and dangerous, full of power and pure desperation—a deadly combination, as far as Cobb knew. "I don't care if you have to use the device in order to do it. I want the briefcase and I want names, however the hell you can get them."

"You'll have both by tomorrow night, Bobby. In the meantime, try to have some pleasant dreams."

Cobb ended the call and stuffed the phone into his pocket, wishing he could pocket this whole goddamn job just as easily. Slip it aside and forget all about it, out of sight and out of mind until he was ready to pull it out again.

Mal glanced at him from the driver's seat, eyes hidden behind an oversized pair of sunglasses. "I suppose there's no pleasing Bobby?"

"Not unless we cough up the identity of whoever those thieves are working for."

"That's no fun at all. I was looking forward to blowing their brains out."

"Supposing they have brains to begin with," said Cobb. "They're driving a Volkswagen Beetle with cat ears."

Mal smiled as they passed a billboard for Saito's Roadside Sushi. "On the contrary, _mon cher_. Their silly car is meant to trick us into thinking they're fools. Clearly they are hiding great cleverness—and nothing would please me more than to crush it."

"You'll have your chance soon enough. I've got a plan."

* * *

For once in his life, Eames wanted something to go right. When Arthur left behind his briefcase at the airport, Eames truly believed the universe was giving him a chance at happiness. A chance to pursue something worthy and prove himself as more than just a lower-class limo driver with an unbreakable gambling habit.

But now, as he stared at four completely useless car tires, he knew the universe had fucked him in the arse.

He could tell by Yusuf's horror-stricken face that Mr. Charles and Mrs. Shade had followed them into the parking lot. They both wore dark sunglasses and walked with a purpose, hands empty of weaponry. The soiled rug was nowhere in sight.

"We meet again," said Mr. Charles. He halted next to the Kittymobile, lips curling into a smirk at the slashed tires. "Looks like Aspen is off the table, unless you come with us."

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Eames demanded.

"I told you, my name is Mr. Charles, and I have an important service to offer you. I specialize in a very specific type of security, you see. _Subconscious_ security."

"Subconscious?" echoed Yusuf. "Like when you're dreaming?"

"Exactly," said Mrs. Shade, smiling beneath her oversized sunglasses. "We know what you're carrying with you. We _know_ about the device, and if you value the safety of your subconscious mind, you'll accept our protection."

"Protection from what?" asked Eames. "And if you're so willing to offer us your services, why take such an underhanded, passive-aggressive approach? Makes me feel like _you're_ the ones we need security from."

Mr. Charles remained unfazed, staring hard at Eames through his sunglasses. "Dreamshare is top-secret. Forgive me if I'm not in the habit of strolling up to customers and handing out my business card. I know this all looks highly suspicious from your perspective, but believe me, when dealing with dreamshare, you have to fight subterfuge with subterfuge. You can either come with us and take a leap of faith, or you can continue on your way and leave your mind's secrets vulnerable to hackers."

"We _do_ want to protect you," added Mrs. Shade. "Along with the device you carry. Dreamshare is highly coveted. We've been tailing you since the airport, picking off potential thieves. The very _mention_ of dreamshare draws predators like a drop of blood draws sharks in the water. You've been watched, gentlemen, and almost waylaid. I believe there were shots fired at you yesterday morning, if I'm not mistaken?"

Yusuf nodded, shoulders already slumped in defeat. "Yes."

"And I suppose you've noticed those gunshots have ceased? We can stop other bullets, too. The ones that try to enter your mind when you're deep in the depths of sleep. Let us show you."

Eames weighed his options, thinking of the last time he took a gamble. The last time, he'd been at a poker table for nearly six hours in Carlos Juarez's basement, racking up a small mountain of debt he had yet to pay. And probably _wouldn't_ pay until he returned from Aspen, since he was entirely convinced that Mr. Charles and Mrs. Shade had nothing to do with Carlos' poker game. They knew about dreamshare. They might know _Arthur_. He didn't trust the pair of them any further than he could throw that blasted briefcase, but one thing Eames could not resist was a spectacular gamble.

"Yusuf, fetch the briefcase, will you? It seems our new friends have a thing or two to show us."

* * *

Aspen again.

Eames could tell from the snow falling gently outside the windows of the restaurant. From the way the women glittered with jewels and the men smelled of money.

From the way Arthur looked at him across the candlelit table, like they were the only two people in the dreamworld.

Which wasn't the case, unfortunately. Yusuf sat at a table nearby with Mr. Charles and Mrs. Shade. All of them wore elegant dinner outfits to match the restaurant's classy decor, while waiters in crisp white shirts carried trays across the room. In a shadowy corner by the bar, a man played "Eleanor Rigby" on the piano, thanks to a generous tip Arthur had given him at the start of the evening.

"I know how much you love the Beatles," Arthur explained, while a waiter poured them wine.

Not as much as he loved Arthur, but Eames wasn't sure if their relationship had reached the stage where he could mention that out loud. _Were_ they in a relationship? It certainly seemed like it, given the table for two and the softness in Arthur's eyes as he gazed at Eames over his wineglass.

But then Mrs. Shade ruined the moment when she noticed Arthur and demanded, "What is _he_ doing here?"

Arthur's eyes immediately turned to shards of glass. Glaring defiantly at Mrs. Shade, he reached across the table and took Eames by the hand. "What does it look like?"

Definitely a date, then.

Mrs. Shade, to Eames' surprise, started to laugh. "I see. Clearly he's a projection."

"Are you sure?" asked Mr. Charles, squinting suspiciously at Arthur.

"Positive," said Mrs. Shade. "Arthur, who are you engaged to?"

Arthur's grip became tighter. "Mr. Eames, of course."

"See?" said Mrs. Shade, smirking at Mr. Charles. "He _has_ to be a projection."

"What do you mean, projection?" asked Yusuf, while Eames' head was spinning because he and Arthur were _engaged_.

"Arthur is merely part of Eames' subconscious," Mr. Charles explained. "He's a part of the dreamworld, like the waiters and the piano player. All of his actions are born out of subconscious desire."

Eames knew that, of course, on a much more basic level. He wasn't a blithering idiot, but he still felt part of his soul die just a little. He gently pulled his hand from Arthur's grasp—which felt all too _real_ —and put on a great show of nonchalantly sipping his wine.

"You can train projections to become militarized," Mr. Charles continued. "If you train enough of them, you can build your own personal army, ready to defend your subconscious at the first sign of intrusion." He stared hard at Eames, practically radiating intensity. "I can show you how to do this. How to store your mind's secrets in an impenetrable vault and build a guard around it, but first you'll need to open up to me. I need to know exactly _where_ your most valuable information is buried, in order to help you build a wall around it."

"I've got nothing exciting to hide, if that's what you're after," said Eames. "But if this is how you want to play the game, then fine. I'll play." He glanced at Arthur and felt an ache in his chest all over again. "I hope you don't mind if I take a quick trip to the loo first."

He remembered too late that this was America and they called it a _restroom_ for some unfathomable reason, but fuck terminology. He just wanted to be alone for a moment. Get his head on straight. He was dealing with potentially dangerous people, after all, no matter how much they claimed they wanted to protect him, and it wouldn't do to lose his bloody mind because the love of his life kept materializing in front of him.

The bathroom lay at the end of a dimly lit hall lined with black-and-white photographs of the Rocky Mountains. The man at the piano continued to play "Eleanor Rigby," on and on. The melody reached out to Eames through the hallway, while the unsung lyrics flitted through his mind.

_All the lonely people_  
_Where do they all come from?_  
_All the lonely people_  
_Where do they all belong?_

He had nearly reached the men's room when a pair of heels approached him from behind.

"After you, Mr. Eames," said Mrs. Shade.

Eames blinked and stopped walking. He could have sworn there'd been two bathrooms, men and women, but now there was only one with both sexes upon the door.

"What happened to ladies first?"

"Chivalry bores me," said Mrs. Shade. She overtook him and propped open the bathroom door, watching him with all the world's mysteries wrapped up in her smile. "I'll say it one more time, Mr. Eames. After you."

Eames slipped past her into the bathroom. He didn't need to piss—wasn't sure how that even _worked_ in the dreamworld, anyway—and studied his surroundings. The place seemed normal enough, for a unisex bathroom. Urinals to the left, tampon machines to the right. Mrs. Shade made a beeline for the mirror above the sinks, where she inspected her already-impeccable makeup.

"You're barking up the wrong tree when it comes to Arthur," she said, eyes fixed on Eames through the mirror.

"Why? Because he's not bloody real?"

"Oh, he's real enough, in the outside world."

"Do you know him well?"

"I know plenty _of_ him," said Mrs. Shade, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "He's certainly not engaged to you. What was it Mr. Charles said earlier? A projection can act on subconscious desires? I have to admit, yours took me by surprise."

He fought the urge to drive his fist through the mirror, right into the reflection of her beautiful smirking face. "I suppose I don't strike you as the marrying sort?"

"You don't," she affirmed. "But appearances often deceive the eye. How well do _you_ know Arthur Swanson-Steiner?"

Eames tried to lean casually against the paper towel dispenser to hide how she had startled him. "So he has a last name."

"Two names, actually. His mother married twice. Is this news to you?"

He flashed her a lazy smile, hoping to prove that appearances _could_ deceive. "If you're going to interrogate me, darling, it'd be nice if you returned my wallet first."

Her slim eyebrows pulled into a frown. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You pinched it when you held the door open for me, didn't you? I've done my share of pickpocketing, Mrs. Shade, though I can't imagine why you'd need to rob a man when you can dream up infinite cash. Unless this has to do with that subconscious security Mr. Charles keeps blathering about?"

She turned from the mirror and slowly drew his wallet out of her purse. "I was hoping we could do this the easy way, Mr. Eames." She peeked into the wallet, rolled her eyes at its empty contents, and tossed it into the sink. "But unfortunately you were a step ahead of me."

The _click_ of a pistol echoed off the bathroom walls.

Eames stared into the barrel of the gun, thinking back to that first time he tinkered around with dreamshare. The way Arthur casually shot Yusuf out of the picture—acting on Eames' desire to eliminate their third wheel, as Mr. Charles would probably claim.

"Perhaps I'm a bit slow at putting together the pieces here, but I don't see what good it will do to kick me out of the dream."

Mrs. Shade smiled. "Who said anything about killing you?"

Then she shot him in the leg.

And _bloody fucking hell_ , it sent an explosion of pain ripping through his flesh, every bit as agonizing as reality. Eames crumpled to the floor, the left thigh of his trousers stained with blood.

"Now tell me," said Mrs. Shade, "who you're working for."

"Nobody right now," Eames gasped through the pain. "I was a limo driver, but I got sacked the day I met Arthur."

She aimed the gun at his other leg. "Acting dumb doesn't become you, Mr. Eames. Who hired you to _steal that briefcase_?"

Somehow he started to laugh, despite the bullet lodged in his thigh. Hysteria, probably. She'd driven him to fucking _hysteria_. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?" he demanded through his laughter, bleeding profusely on the floor tiles. "Do you think I'm headed to Aspen so I can rub dreamshare in Arthur's face? I didn't _steal_ that stupid briefcase. I'm going to Aspen because I'm in fucking _love_ with Arthur Swanson-fucking-Steiner, and I won't rest until I've safely returned that briefcase to his rightful hands."

Slowly, she lowered the gun. "That can't be it."

"I was the chauffeur who drove him to the airport. He seemed anxious about something. I didn't want to let him go, so I sat in the limo and watched him. _That's_ how I discovered he left his briefcase behind, so I snatched it up and tried to catch him, but his plane had already taken off."

"Yet you opened the briefcase."

"I'm not the most scrupulous man in the world. Fucking sue me. Yusuf's convinced Arthur is a drug dealer peddling a close cousin of LSD, but _you_ seem to know a thing or two about this dreamshare bollocks. Or _is_ it bollocks?" Eames looked Mrs. Shade in the eye, fingers drenched in his own blood. "Maybe this is the real world. And everything else on the outside was just a dream." The hysteria bubbled up again, forcing his mouth into a pain-twisted grin. "Makes sense, doesn't it? Somebody _must_ have dreamed up Saito's Roadside Sushi. But now we're _here_ and your knickers are all in a twist because you're awake and you can't stand the reality."

"I'm not awake," Mrs. Shade whispered, shaking her head. "I know which world is real."

"Maybe nothing is real. How do you know that life isn't just one endless dream within a dream within _another_ fucking dream?"

The pistol trembled in her hand. "I can always wake myself up. That's how."

"Then do it, Mrs. Shade. Prove to me you're dreaming."

She stared down at him in his pool of blood. Slowly, carefully, she raised the pistol to her own head and closed her eyes.

Pulled the trigger.

The gun clattered across the floor, coming to rest just inches from the sole of Eames' shoe.

* * *

He woke up in a daze, clutching at his left thigh. No blood. No pain either, though his body felt cramped. He was sitting in the passenger seat of Yusuf's Kittymobile, hooked into the briefcase. Yusuf sat slumped in the driver's seat, blinking furiously as he awoke.

Mr. Charles and Mrs. Shade were in the back, sunglasses tucked into their pockets. Mrs. Shade resembled a statue, staring straight ahead with a slack-jawed expression. Mr. Charles gave her a gentle nudge in the shoulder, then slid the needle from her arm.

She blinked, frowning to herself. Mr. Charles noticed and shook her gently again.

"Honey, are you awake?"

"I don't know," she murmured. " _Am_ I? Or is this a dream?"

"Of course it's not a dream. We're back in the real world. Look around you."

Her gaze slid to the car window. She stared blankly at the sun-baked parking lot, the sushi restaurant, and the rolled-up carpet leaning against the XTRACTR car.

"A roadside sushi restaurant in the Midwest," she scoffed, "owned by an outrageously wealthy man with a carpet fetish. Which one of you dreamed _that_ up?"

Something strange had happened in that dream-bathroom. A peculiar combination of guilt and excitement crept through Eames' mind as he remembered an empty wallet and tiles stained with blood.

Yusuf turned to frown in puzzlement at Mrs. Shade. "As crazy as it sounds, the restaurant's real. This is _all_ real."

"How do you know that?" she demanded.

Mr. Charles, for the first time since Eames had met him, actually looked alarmed. "Honey, what's gotten into you? We just woke up a dream, remember? Look, here's the needle and the device—"

"A dream within a _dream_ ," she interrupted, voice shaking in desperation.

"What?" said Mr. Charles, while Eames whispered, _Shit_.

Mrs. Shade turned frightened eyes on Mr. Charles. "How do we know we're not trapped inside a dream within a dream? The only way to get out is to wake ourselves _up_."

Somewhere in the near distance, a train whistled.

Mrs. Shade got out of the car, moving surprisingly fast for a woman who had (supposedly) just woken up, and made a dash for the train tracks. Mr. Charles shouted her name and fumbled after her.

Yusuf's eyes were huge as he watched the two of them disappear. "What if she's right?"

Eames sighed. "Yusuf, if this was a dream, would you still be an underpaid cat groomer who drives a baby blue Volkswagen Beetle named the Kittymobile?"

"...Yes?"

"You're fucking hopeless. On the bright side, we've still got the briefcase and can ditch this lousy ride. Now that Mr. Charles and Mrs. Shade are occupied, I don't believe they'll miss their car."

"Do we really have to steal the car? Why can't we just take their perfectly good tires and put them on the Kittymobile?"

"Yusuf, do you enjoy breathing?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"Then grab your bloody luggage and get in that car," said Eames. "We're heading to Aspen in _style_."

* * *

Arthur Swanson-Steiner had never been a stranger to luxury. First he had been born into a wealthy family. When he was five, his mother divorced his rich father and married an even richer man, ensuring Arthur a lifetime of boarding schools, fancy balls, and expensive ski trips. As he sat in the living room of his family's home in Aspen, surrounded by supportive faces and a roaring fire, he felt he would gladly reverse his fortune in exchange for repeating that fateful day at the airport.

He would take an entirely different limo, with an entirely different driver, for starters. Perhaps _that_ was where it had all gone wrong.

"You can't keep beating yourself up over it," his mother tried to tell him, leaning over his chair in a cloud of perfume and vodka fumes. She gave Arthur's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, digging into him with _far_ too many rings on her fingers. "After all, you did _exactly_ as you were instructed."

"Maybe that's the problem," muttered Arthur. "Instead of leaving the briefcase, I should have confronted those kidnappers myself."

"Nonsense," said his mother, deciding to maul Arthur's other shoulder while she was at it. "Going up against two dangerous criminals all alone? You know my heart couldn't take it."

Arthur was certain his mother's heart would still endure if a steamroller ran over it.

"She's right, Arthur," said the blue-eyed man who stood near the fireplace, watching the snow fall. "Making any rash moves would be folly. You don't want to provoke these people."

Robert Fischer wasn't family, but he had been part of their affairs for so long that Arthur considered him an almost-brother. Robert's father, Maurice, had been playing golf with Arthur's stepfather for the last twenty-five years, which firmly united the two families, though Maurice had chosen to skip this particular gathering.

"If you won't listen to me, Arthur, at least listen to Robert," said Arthur's mother. "God knows his father never does."

Arthur winced at his mother's complete lack of tact. Robert's face remained blank, though Arthur could have sworn his hand tightened around his glass of hot cider.

(It was no secret that Maurice rarely showed up where Robert was present.)

"What am I supposed to do, then?" said Arthur. "Sit here and do nothing? That briefcase could be anywhere. How long do you think the kidnappers will hold out until they turn to drastic measures?"

Robert turned his gaze to Arthur. His eyes, as always, felt like an electric shock. "They'll hold out for as long as we do."

"And if they don't get their ransom?"

Robert smiled. "They'll get it somehow. People like that always do."

* * *

Eames and Yusuf were making excellent time on the road. The XTRACTR car ran much smoother than the Kittymobile, for one thing, and was far less embarrassing. Eames no longer felt tempted to wear a paper bag over his head whenever they pulled into a gas station. Instead he felt _confidant_ sitting behind the wheel of a sleek black car. Surely Arthur would approve once they rolled into Aspen and located his address.

He would do much more than approve, Eames told himself as the miles grew smaller and one state line gave way to another. They had already come so far. Eames _had_ to believe it wasn't all for nothing.

But he still felt a brief moment of panic when they passed the Aspen city limits.

"Here we are," said Yusuf, gazing in wonder at the snowy mountains that surrounded the city. "Just minutes away from our grand reward! All we have to do is find out where that Arthur fellow lives."

"Right," said Eames, maintaining a firm grip on the steering wheel despite the anxious pounding in his chest. "We'll grab a bite to eat and hope he's in the nearest phonebook."

Yusuf raised an eyebrow at him. "Or we could use Google."

"Fine. Google, then. After we eat and find a hotel."

"Is that hesitation I'm detecting, Eames? I thought you were eager to see Arthur!"

"Of course I'm eager to see him. Who _wouldn't_ be eager to see Arthur?" Eames glanced down at himself, frowning at the same shabby clothes he'd been wearing the day before. "I just don't want to dash blindly into the most important moment of my life. It'd be good to freshen up a bit, first."

They had lunch at the most ordinary restaurant they could find, taking care to pick an establishment that had absolutely no rugs on the floor. While they ate, Yusuf put the XTRACTR car on Craigslist because a.) they were pathetically low on funds and b.) Aspen wasn't cheap. The sale of the car gave them enough cash to rent a comfortable hotel room, where Eames immediately stashed the briefcase in a safe place and studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, thinking of all the dream encounters he had shared with his projection of Arthur.

In the dream world, anything had been possible. He could change into a fancy suit at a moment's notice and make a restaurant play his favorite band.

A pair of bathrooms could merge as one in the blink of an eye.

He and Arthur could be engaged.

But this was not the dream world. This was the real Aspen, where the real Arthur was living and breathing somewhere, unaware that Eames possessed a briefcase he probably never expected to see again. What would Eames say, the moment they locked eyes again? _Hello, Arthur. Remember me? I officially became your stalker when you left that briefcase at the airport._ Or _, Hello again, Arthur. Last time you saw me, my hand was on your arse._

There was no possible way he could show up at Arthur's door without looking like a bloody lunatic.

Yusuf rapped on the bathroom door, jerking Eames' gaze from the mirror.

"I'm going to be down in the lobby selling my homemade cat shampoo. Are you coming along?"

"Go on without me," said Eames. "I'm going to rest up for a bit."

He waited until Yusuf departed downstairs, then came out of the bathroom and dug out the briefcase. Common sense told him to put the stupid thing away and hunt down Arthur's address instead, but he wanted just one more taste of fantasy before he resigned himself to reality.

One last practice run with dream-Arthur, before he made a fool of himself in front of the real one.

He slid the needle into his arm and opened his eyes to a snow-covered hill.

It took Eames a moment to realize he was floating _above_ the hill, seated on a ski lift that carried him through the crisp air. Brightly colored people on skis and snowboards darted below, most of them wearing goggles to shield themselves from the blinding snow. When Eames glanced over his own appearance, he discovered he was wearing a solid orange ski suit that made him resemble a traffic cone. It was _delightful_.

Arthur, seated next to Eames on the ski lift, was dressed in sensible black with a pair of white goggles. As usual in the dream world, everything felt impossibly right, as if Eames' life had been entwined with Arthur's for a thousand years.

He knew it wasn't.

"Is it terribly strange that I tracked you down all this way, just to return your briefcase?" he dared to ask Arthur.

They were approaching the next hill, where a pack of children had just landed. Arthur's eyes were hidden behind his goggles, but his voice was warm enough to thaw the chill in the air.

"Of course it was strange," said Arthur. "But I was impressed. It takes serious dedication to drive all those miles, just for me."

His words should have soothed Eames. Should have melted the ice that kept him frozen in the real world, hesitating to act on his feelings. But they didn't.

Eames knew, no matter how much he longed to fool himself, that those words were empty. They were exactly what he wanted to hear, nothing more.

The ski lift slowed to a stop, depositing them at the top of the hill. Eames didn't know how to ski, but that didn't seem to matter. He coasted downward, speeding across the snow with Arthur close behind, and found himself grinning as the world rushed past. _This_ was the power of dreams, he supposed. Feeling invincible for just one moment, despite knowing you were a hopeless failure in the real world.

They reached the end of the hill, where the ski lodge waited. The two of them removed their skis and stomped the excess snow from their boots, then trekked into the warmth of the lodge where people were ordering beverages, getting measured for equipment, and arranging ski lessons. Eames nearly bumped right into a man wearing a baby blue ski suit. His matching beanie had a pair of cat ears sprouting from the top.

"Yusuf, you bloody fucking twatface," Eames swore. "It that really you?"

The man in the blue ski suit turned around, revealing Yusuf's familiar face. "That's no way to greet the man who helped drive you out here."

"What the hell are you even doing here? I thought you were selling cat shampoo."

Yusuf shrugged. "Couldn't find many cat owners. What about you?" He spotted Arthur and gave Eames a nudge with his elbow. "When's the wedding?"

"Next week," Arthur promptly answered, which should have sent Eames into immediate ecstasy, but somehow the excitement fell flat.

Yusuf was grinning like a complete arse. "I suppose I'm invited?"

"No," said Eames. "Nobody's invited. This isn't real."

He had to quit doing this to himself.

Fumbling in the pockets of his ski suit, Eames produced a gun. "Perhaps the two of you can become better acquainted," he told Yusuf and Arthur. "I'm heading back to reality."

He never felt a thing the moment he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Eames opened his eyes to a quiet hotel room. Yusuf sat slumped in a chair dreaming, left with the remnants of Eames' fantasy. He could have the whole bloody dreamland. It had grown stale for Eames, only existing to taunt him with all the things he desired but didn't truly have.

Might never have, if he didn't get off his lazy arse and _do_ something already.

He was in the middle of researching Arthur's address when Yusuf awoke.

"Arthur's not so bad," said Yusuf, blinking the grogginess from his eyes. "We made a snowman together."

"I hope that's the _only_ thing you made together," Eames muttered under his breath, unable to resist a completely irrational surge of jealousy. "I found out where Arthur lives. He has a big house on Paradox Lane."

"Excellent. As soon as you hand over that briefcase, we'll be rich!" Yusuf was grinning like an arse again. "But first, we've got to get you something appropriate to wear. Something in a _normal_ color. No bright orange."

"What the bloody hell's wrong with orange?"

"Nothing, if you're trying to blend into a fruit bowl. You want to _impress_ Arthur, not blind him the moment he sets eyes on you! Now come on, let's go shopping."

* * *

In the end, after Eames was properly attired in a boring dark suit, Yusuf remained at the hotel to guard the briefcase while Eames traveled to Paradox Lane alone. It had occurred to Eames, during the tedious hour spent suit shopping, that he had never set out to woo anyone before. Most of his relationships consisted of bumping into someone attractive, turning up his charm to full wattage, falling into bed with his conquest, and neglecting to call him or her back the next day.

 _This_ was far different. Like being a schoolboy all over again, setting out on his very first date. Should he bring flowers? Somehow he doubted Arthur would appreciate that. Chocolates, perhaps? Unless Arthur was a health fanatic. He probably preferred salad.

After driving himself half-mad wondering what to do, Eames finally discovered an old-fashioned record store and made his selection.

Armed with nothing but a vinyl record and his own good looks, he arrived on wealthy Paradox Lane and strolled up the path to Arthur's large, beautiful house. This was finally It; the moment where he could no longer turn back. He would either ring the doorbell and take the biggest gamble of his life, or run back to the hotel and build an imaginary relationship within his dreams.

Eames chose the doorbell.

Like a dream come to life, the door swung open and Arthur appeared. He was the Arthur from their first meeting, tense and serious, dressed impeccably in a tie and sweater vest.

Eames knew, from the way Arthur frowned in confusion at him, that this was definitely not a dream. So he blurted out his usual tactic: insufferable charm.

"Miss me, darling?"

Arthur's confused frown deepened. "Mr. Eames? What are you doing here?"

"I came to Aspen on very important business," said Eames, "and since you mentioned you were headed this way, I thought I would look you up and drop in. Hope it's not a bad time for a visit." He held up the parcel he'd brought from the record store. "I brought you a gift."

Arthur stood frozen, momentarily stunned. His eyes flickered from the Beatles album to the hopeful smile on Eames' face. "That's very... thoughtful of you. But I'm afraid this isn't the best time for visitors. There's a little bit of a family emergency going on—"

"Arthur! Are you going to hold that door open all day? You're letting in a draft."

Eames could have sworn Arthur rolled his eyes as an elegant, dark-haired older woman sauntered up to the doorway. Her eyes landed on Eames and her perfect, lipsticked mouth curved into a smirk.

"Who is this handsome stranger?" she asked in an upper-class drawl, a full wineglass clutched in her hand.

Arthur was very clearly trying not to sigh. "Mother, this is Mr. Eames. He drove me to the airport."

"The pleasure was all mine," said Eames.

"Oh, and he's _English_ ," Arthur's mother gushed. "How delightful. You really must invite him inside, Arthur. Where on earth are your manners?"

"Won't you come in, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asked through gritted teeth.

Eames gladly crossed the threshold into a well-lit, high-ceilinged entrance hall, keeping the Beatles album tucked under one arm. Arthur's mother, who introduced herself as Judith Steiner, offered him a glass of Merlot while Arthur trailed behind her, mouth pressed into a firm line. The whole place reeked of money, just as Eames expected. He let Judith pour him the wine and met the rest of the family: Arthur's stepfather, a bespectacled man in a crisp gray suit; Judith's lapdog, a snowy white terrier in a sweater that would make Yusuf envious; and the Steiners' close friend, an intensely blue-eyed man named Robert Fischer.

In the whirl of introductions, Eames was aware of several family photos scattered about the premises. Two of them featured Arthur with a dark-haired girl who must be his sister. After the introductions were complete and Eames' jacket was hanging comfortably on the coat rack, Judith took it upon herself to further embarrass her son.

"You drove all the way from Rhode Island just to see my Arthur?" she asked Eames, rings glittering as she raised her wineglass. "Isn't that the sweetest? Lenny here was saying just _yesterday_ how they don't make chauffeurs like they used to anymore. Isn't that right, Lenny? But England _must_ have done something right with Mr. Eames, which doesn't surprise me, of course. The English always have such beautiful manners."

Arthur's stepfather, absorbed in a newspaper by the fireside, absently agreed with Judith, while Arthur looked as if he longed for the roof to collapse on all their heads. Robert Fischer, seated on a sofa with the lapdog, had been mostly silent since Eames walked through the door. He seemed content to simply sit and observe, which normally wouldn't bother Eames, but something about his persistent gaze was unnerving.

Eames threw off Robert's stare and grinned at Judith. "Along with the superior manners, we've also got the best music—which I never got around to discussing with Arthur when I drove him to the airport. But you can never go wrong with the Fab Four. I brought _Revolver_ especially for you, Arthur."

"You brought a gun?" Arthur demanded.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Arthur," chided Judith. "Don't be dramatic."

"It's the name of the album," said Eames. "The Beatles?" he added hopefully.

Judith smiled apologetically at Eames. "Don't bother, dear. Arthur's always been rather unconventional. You should have _seen_ the music he collected as a boy. Half of it was in French and the other half was classical. And he hasn't changed one bit—hasn't he, Lenny?"

Arthur's stepfather, eyes still glued to his newspaper, murmured his assent.

"I know who the Beatles are, Mother," said Arthur. "Thank you for the gift, Mr. Eames. It will look very nice next to the stacks of Beethoven and Mozart."

Judith rolled her eyes and continued to sip her wine.

It was a strange situation. As much as Eames was amused by Arthur's long-suffering attitude toward his mother, he always expected their reunion to be a little more private. He certainly never imagined he would have to woo Arthur right in front of his parents.

He longed to speak with Arthur alone, but Judith swiftly provided more alcohol and ushered him onto the sofa—"Right next to Robert, dear. And don't mind the dog. He's sixteen years old and _completely_ harmless."

The conversation turned to the subject of Eames' travels. Robert Fischer, choosing to creep out of his shell, turned his brilliant eyes on Eames and said, "That's quite impressive, driving two thousand miles in such a short amount of time. You never paused to see the sights?"

"I was in a bit of a hurry to get here," said Eames, with a sly glance at Arthur, who sat as far from Judith as possible. "Personal business."

"If you're heading back to Rhode Island, I highly recommend Saito's Roadside Sushi in Indiana. The owner is an acquaintance of mine. A genius when it comes to restaurants, though undeniably eccentric. The man is rather fanatical when it comes to carpet."

"Believe me, mate, I learned that the hard way."

Robert's eyes gleamed as if Eames had told a particularly clever joke. But he didn't ask any more on the matter. Judith took Robert's silence as the perfect opportunity to continue interrogating Eames.

"You _must_ tell us more about how you met my Arthur," she gushed at him. "I'm always telling him he should make more friends. Aren't I always saying that, Lenny? I'm _always_ telling Arthur to make more friends. If it wasn't for Ariadne—bless her heart—I'm almost _certain_ he would be a hermit. It's so good of you, Mr. Eames, to take it upon yourself to reach out to Arthur the way you have, taking all this time out of your busy schedule! I do hope we're not keeping you from anything important."

"Actually, my business in Aspen _does_ largely concern Arthur," Eames confessed. "I came to return something he left behind at the airport."

Arthur's eyes went wide. He sat bolt upright in his chair, while Judith was cooing over how _sweet_ and _thoughtful_ Eames was, _don't you agree, Lenny?_

"Mr. Eames," said Arthur, and never had his eyes looked so intense, even in the wildest depths of dreamshare. "Can I have a private word with you?"

Eames set down his wineglass. "Of course."

Arthur practically dragged him down the hallway and shoved him into a guest bedroom. The force of his hands was startling, but the smile died on Eames' lips when Arthur backed him against the wall with murder in his eyes.

"Did you take the briefcase?" Arthur demanded.

"Well, yes. It's at my hotel room—"

"You _idiot_. You complete, _fucking_ idiot. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Eames stared at him, feeling as if he had flunked a test he didn't know he was taking. "I'm sorry, does this mean you _don't_ want the briefcase?"

Arthur backed away, though he still resembled a bull ready to charge. "I left that briefcase at the airport for a reason, so it could be picked up by two _very_ specific people. If I don't get that briefcase into the right hands as soon as possible, I will never forgive you, Mr. Eames. And you had better believe I won't rest until your blood is on my hands."

Eames honestly had nothing to say to that. Other than the fact that Arthur was ridiculously appealing when he was all worked up, but it hardly seemed the appropriate time to mention it.

"You said the briefcase is at your hotel?" Arthur asked.

"Yes. My friend Yusuf is guarding it."

"Then let's go," said Arthur, shoving open the bedroom door.

He didn't wait for Eames and stalked down the hall, back to the glowing warmth of the fire-lit parlor. Eames followed him, completely bewildered and full of questions, and noticed Robert had disappeared. The flushing of a toilet somewhere confirmed where he had gone.

Judith was distraught when Arthur announced his intentions of leaving.

"But Arthur, dinner is at seven-thirty sharp! We're having a brisket pot roast—your _favorite_."

"Keep it in the fridge for me," said Arthur. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"At least consider an invitation for Mr. Eames!" Judith called out to them as they headed for the door. "He's such a _nice_ man!"

They made it out of the house at last, where the cold seeped through Eames' jacket and made him long for the Steiners' fireside. "Invitation to what?" he asked Arthur.

"My mother's funeral. I'm going to murder her as soon as I get back."

He took Eames to the garage, where a shiny BMW awaited, and tore out of the driveway at a breakneck speed that made Yusuf look like a decent driver. Eames was still in a state of shock, as if the entire evening had gotten swept into a tornado, and he hastily swallowed his questions about the briefcase and dreamshare. Arthur wouldn't have answered them anyway. He was too busy speeding out of Paradox Lane and demanding the location of Eames' hotel.

Yusuf was absent when they arrived. Under different circumstances, Eames would have rejoiced at being alone with Arthur in a hotel room, but so far nothing had gone according to plan. He was starting to doubt Arthur would even reward him, let alone shag him for his trouble. The moment they entered the room, Arthur made a beeline for the briefcase and popped it open, glancing over the equipment inside. Seemingly satisfied that all was intact, he shut the briefcase and looked at Eames with something other than hostility in his eyes.

It was more like relief.

"Do you mind stepping out into the hall?" Arthur asked. "I need to make some phone calls."

Only Arthur could get away with ordering Eames out of his own hotel room. At first Eames stood in the hallway with his ear pressed to the door, trying to eavesdrop, but quickly gave up and settled for rehearsing an elaborate speech on _why_ he trekked all the way out here to Aspen. Something along the lines of dreams and true love and wanting to stare at Arthur's fantastic arse for the rest of his life.

"It really _is_ bloody fantastic," Eames was saying to the hallway, the moment Arthur opened the door.

Arthur stood and stared at him. "You really are a fucking weirdo."

Eames composed himself and smiled, as if talking to himself in an empty hallway was completely natural. "Thank you."

"No, really. You _are_. What kind of person snatches an abandoned briefcase and then _drives_ two thousand miles to find its owner?"

Eames' smile faltered. This was bloody well It.

"The kind of person who fancies you terribly, Arthur."

Arthur's perplexed expression _might_ have been comical in literally any other situation. "Excuse me?"

"Can I at least go back into the room? If I'm going to pour out my soul, I'd prefer to do it privately."

Wordlessly, Arthur stepped back to allow Eames into the room. He still looked as if someone had beat him over the head with a complicated puzzle.

Eames felt like he was standing before a crowd in only his underwear.

"I, uh, have been dreaming about you since we met," he began. "Quite literally, since you've appeared in every _single_ one of my dreams. I realize we don't know each other very well, and I've probably come off as incredibly dodgy, but I couldn't rest until I brought you that briefcase, just so I could see you again—"

"I'm going to stop you right there," said Arthur. He sounded surprisingly gentle. "It's not going to work between us, Mr. Eames." His eyes were full of pity. "I think you should go home."

A sharp knock at the door kept Eames from making a further fool of himself. Arthur answered it, revealing Robert Fischer standing in the hallway, while Eames desperately tried to process his own apparent failure.

"Good evening, Arthur," said Robert. "I believe you have something that belongs to me?"

From the depths of his jacket, he produced a gun, barrel aimed directly at Arthur's chest. Behind Eames, the window shattered and five ninjas dressed in black clambered into the hotel room at lightning speed. They grabbed hold of Eames before he had time to shout.

"It was you, Robert?" said Arthur, all the fire gone from his voice. He sounded like a helpless boy lost in a supermarket without his mother. "You arranged the kidnapping?"

"My whole life, my father has compared me to _you_ ," said Robert. "Why can't you be more like Arthur, son? Pay close attention to Arthur. You wouldn't catch fucking _Arthur_ making an error like that, son." His eyes blazed with an anger that had been smoldering for years. "All this time, I've had to watch you rise to success, while I was left behind in the dust. While my father kept wishing I was _you_. When you started making headway on your 'groundbreaking' dreamshare research, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't let you win again, King Arthur. I had to topple you from your _throne_."

"I would have made you a partner in the research," said Arthur. "All you had to do was ask."

"And ride to glory upon your coattails? No. That wouldn't have been enough. _Nothing_ can ever be enough but taking away everything you hold dear."

"I swear, Robert, if you've hurt Ariadne—"

Robert chuckled humorlessly. "Your fiancee is safe. She would have been safe regardless. I believe her and I have reached... a certain understanding."

Eames, restrained by the ninjas, felt as if the gun pointed at Arthur had somehow struck _him_ in the chest. "Fiancee? What the bloody hell do you _mean_ by fiancee?"

"I told you it wouldn't work between us, Mr. Eames," said Arthur.

Eames suddenly remember Mrs. Shade in the dreamworld, asking Arthur, _Who are you engaged to?_

"Shit," he muttered. One of the ninjas prodded him to be quiet.

"You can have the briefcase, Robert," said Arthur. "Take it. Just promise me you'll let Ariadne go."

"I promise," said Robert. He snapped his fingers at one of the ninjas, reminding Eames of Saito. "Bring me the device."

Come to think of it, those bloody ninjas probably _belonged_ to Saito.

Everyone watched while Robert opened the briefcase. He looked very much like a child on Christmas morning, until he discovered the empty vials. "Where's all the Somnacin?"

"What do you mean, where's the Somnacin?" demanded Arthur. "There should be several full doses in there."

"Obviously you didn’t check them properly. It's gone, Arthur. It's _all_ gone!"

"Impossible." Arthur inspected the vials himself, then shot an accusing glare at Eames. "Did you use this?"

Eames managed a sheepish smile. "I _did_ mention you appeared in my dreams."

"Son of a bitch. You are _dead_ , Mr. Eames."

"He certainly is," said Robert, but before he could raise his gun, the door burst open and two people hurried into the room.

Eames recognized both, though he only knew one. Yusuf had finally emerged from wherever he had been—probably trying to peddle more of his pathetic cat products—and was accompanied by a young woman with long dark hair. The same girl Eames had spotted in the family photographs at the Steiners' house.

From the look on Arthur's face, he supposed this wasn't his sister.

"Robert, stop!" she said. "This has gone too far!"

Robert, to everyone's astonishment, actually refrained from picking up his gun. "Unless you have any Somnacin, Ariadne, I suggest you stay out of this."

Ariadne plopped herself down on an empty chair and stared stubbornly at Robert. Only the threat of the gun probably kept Arthur from going to her.

"When did they release you?" Arthur asked. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Ariadne said with a shrug. "Relax, Arthur. He let me out yesterday."

" _Yesterday?_ Why the hell didn't you find me?"

"This is going to get awkward," muttered Yusuf, who had somehow acquired a pink baseball cap with cat ears on it.

Robert started smirking. "Tell him the reason why, Ariadne. Tell Arthur _all_ about it."

The sudden silence in the room made Eames want to squirm. Ariadne rolled her eyes at Robert, which seemed like a highly dangerous gesture to make at a crazy kidnapper, and started to speak.

"I was frightened, of course, when the kidnappers got me," she explained. "They put me in this giant, sound-proofed warehouse where nobody could see or hear me, and told me I had twenty-four hours. Jeez, Arthur. Don't look at me like that. He wasn't going to _kill_ me. There was a labyrinth built into the warehouse, and I had twenty-four hours to solve it. I had no phone, no means of escape, and nothing better to do, so why not? I solved the thing after five hours. That was when Robert showed up to congratulate me. I guess I should have known he was the one behind this whole thing. I always felt kind of sorry for him, you know, so we spent the rest of my captivity talking. And, well... after all this, I just don't think I can go through with the wedding, Arthur."

Eames' heart was doing a wild dance in his chest, shouting, _Yes, yes, YES!_

Arthur's soul seemed to break in half. "I don't understand."

"Maybe we kind of rushed into things?" said Ariadne. "You've got to admit, Arthur, you only proposed because your mom kept breathing down your neck about it. Maybe we need to take some space from each other and spend time with other people?"

She then did an astonishing thing. Ariadne got up from her seat and stood beside Robert, taking him by the hand. "Like Robert, for instance. I don't know what happened, but he and I sort of... _clicked!_ " She glanced back at Arthur, eyes filled with apology. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I don't want to hurt you, and I know your mom will never let you hear the end of it, but I have to do what feels right."

"Which is me," said Robert, smirking again.

It was the most beautiful thing Eames had ever seen.

Aside from Arthur, of course.

Robert snapped his fingers five times at all the ninjas. "All of you clear out. I think our work here is done."

"I thought you wanted the briefcase," Yusuf spoke up.

Robert put his arm around Ariadne's shoulders and escorted her to the door. "It was really all about robbing Arthur, which I've obviously done, with or without the briefcase. Dreamshare is all yours, Arthur. Have a good night."

Arthur made no move to stop Robert. For one thing, he seemed frozen in place, and there were five deadly ninjas between them. Everyone left the room without further incident, leaving Eames alone with Yusuf, Arthur, and the mysterious briefcase. Yusuf removed his baseball cap and sank onto his bed with a sigh.

"Well, this has been fun," he told Eames. "Please tell me there's at _least_ a reward on its way."

A reward had been the furthest thing from Eames' mind. All he saw was Arthur standing in the middle of the room, a defeated slump to his shoulders. Turned to stone by a double betrayal.

"I wouldn't count on it, mate," said Eames. He closed up the briefcase, shutting the lid on dreamshare, and handed it to Arthur. "I suppose you'd like to have this?"

"Thank you," Arthur said stiffly.

"Are you going to be all right?"

A bitter smile crossed Arthur's lips. "Would _you_ be all right if your close friend kidnapped your fiancee and proceeded to steal her away from you?"

"You know, Arthur, if you're _determined_ to have a wedding, you don't have to cancel. I would stand in for Ariadne in a heartbeat—"

"Good night, Mr. Eames," Arthur cut in, followed by the slamming of the door.

* * *

"I always knew that Ariadne wasn't good enough for Arthur. The first time I ever set eyes on that girl, I said, _There's no way she can ever measure up to my Arthur!_ And wasn't I right, Lenny? She certainly _seemed_ sweet enough and I _do_ want to see Arthur get married. He would make the handsomest groom! But he really should have consulted me before letting that girl into his life. I could sense her inadequacy from a mile away."

Every time Arthur eavesdropped on his mother, she spewed out slight variations on the same theme. It had grown even more tiresome than the silent, pitying looks his stepfather gave him across the dinner table.

Arthur retreated down the hall, escaping Judith's voice, and barricaded himself in the bedroom he used whenever he stayed at his mother's house. The briefcase lay under his bed, untouched since Eames returned it to him. Arthur could get more Somnacin if he talked to the right people, but he had no desire for research at the moment. He knew that as soon as he entered the dreamworld, Ariadne would come to haunt him. The Ariadne he had known before Robert caught her up in his clutches.

He supposed she was right. He _did_ let his mother pressure him into marriage, but he had cared for Ariadne more than he had ever allowed himself to care for a girl before. Her betrayal stabbed deep.

Arthur found comfort, strangely enough, in the Beatles album Eames had given him. He knew a couple of the songs. "Yellow Submarine," of course—he didn't live completely under a rock—but most were a pleasant surprise. A song called "For No One" became his favorite and he listened to it so much, the record would probably start skipping before long. He didn't care. Better to hole up inside with the Beatles than face Judith's incessant questioning.

He found the record and let it play.

_And in her eyes you see nothing_  
_No sign of love behind the tears_  
_Cried for no one_  
_A love that should have lasted years_

Eames had left a note inside the briefcase. Seven digits, hastily scribbled on a sheet of hotel paper. Arthur hadn't touched it since he brought the briefcase home three days ago. He didn't even know if Eames was still in Aspen.

For some reason, he wanted to find out.

Arthur shut the music off and dialed the number, then waited.

“Hello?”

Eames’ voice didn’t annoy him as much as he thought it would.

“What made you pick _Revolver_?” Arthur asked.

The change in Eames’ tone was immediate. Like a man lost at sea who had finally spotted land. “Arthur! Lovely to hear from you! Still single, I take it? My offer is still on the table, you know.”

“I’m not going to marry you, Mr. Eames. But I _have_ been enjoying your gift.”

“I figured _Revolver_ would suit you splendidly. Not overly whimsical, with just the right amount of melancholy. Besides, any album with a song called ‘Taxman’ automatically has your name all over it.”

Arthur realized he was smiling. He hastily wiped it from his face. “Do you really think you know me so well? Let me remind you, this is only the third conversation we’ve ever had.”

“And a lot can be gathered from such scarce interactions. I’m a very intuitive person, Arthur.”

“If you’re so intuitive, you would have left the briefcase alone at the airport.”

Awkward silence, followed by an equally awkward chuckle from Eames. “I suppose I should apologize for that.”

“It’s a little late,” said Arthur, though he didn’t sound bitter. Surprisingly, he didn’t _feel_ bitter either. “But I’m not angry anymore. Robert would have found some way to fuck up my life regardless, with or without your interference.”

This seemed to break whatever ice remained between them. The next few minutes passed in comfortable chatting. Eames had only gone twenty miles from Aspen, holed up with his roommate in cheaper accommodations while they argued on how—and when—they would get back home. Arthur finally voiced the question that had been on his mind since his world fell apart.

“I’m curious about something. What was I like when you dreamed about me?”

“You were relaxed,” said Eames. His voice had grown velvet-soft. “Much more relaxed than I’ve ever seen you in waking life, as if all your worries had been lifted from your shoulders.”

“That sounds like paradise.”

“You were also engaged to me.”

“More like hell, then,” said Arthur, though he couldn’t help smiling again.

He politely ended the conversation. Judith came to find him ten minutes later, like she always did sooner or later, as if she thought Arthur would throw himself off the roof if left unsupervised too long.

“Arthur, honey, dinner’s in the oven,” she informed him over her usual wineglass. “And Maurice is most certainly _not_ invited. Lenny has cut all ties with the Fischer family—which serves them _right_. I still get the shivers thinking that all this time, I let Robert put his filthy hands on my darling dog!”

“I’m sure the dog will survive, Mother,” said Arthur.

“I would hope so, at least. He _is_ sixteen years old. But let’s put the Fischers firmly out of our minds, dear. Whatever happened to that delightful Englishman who came over the other day? What was his name again? Mr. Eaves?”

“Eames.”

“Mr. _Eames_ ,” said Judith, savoring the word. “Whatever _did_ happen to him? If he’s still in town, you really must have him to dinner, Arthur. It’s more important than ever for you carry on with your life and socialize. You _know_ my heart couldn’t take it if you wasted away in here, and Mr. Eames was such a charming man. I’m sure his influence would do you a world of good.”

Further interaction with Eames was bound to cause Arthur a world of trouble, but somehow the idea didn’t repel him. He promised Judith he would think about it, then shooed her away and spent a solid minute pacing around his bedroom, before whipping out his phone once more.

“I hope you’ve got something nice to wear,” he told Eames. “You have a date tonight.”

“Really?” Eames sounded skeptical. “With you?”

“With my mother,” said Arthur, but he was grinning, and it really did feel as if the weight of the world had fallen off his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s this [really cool video](https://youtu.be/zLDx-BPgxxA) that reimagines Dumb and Dumber as an Inception-style thriller. It's one of my favorite things. Check it out!


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